Poetry Archives

A girlish voice like a silver bell
Rang over the sparkling tide,
    “A race! a race!”
  She was under the trees by the river-side,
Down from whose boughs dark shadows fell,
    And hid her face.

Four skiffs are out on the moonlit stream,
And their oars like bars of silver gleam,
  As they dip and flash and kiss the river,
  As swallows do, till the moonbeams quiver.
    Then the ripples die,
    And the girlish cry
    Floats gaily again to the summer sky.

“Ready? Go!”
As the arrow springs from the straightened bow,
  The skiffs dart off for the distant goal:
      The oars are bent like blades of steel,
    And the hissing waters, cleft in twain,
    Curl away astern in a feathery train,
      While girlish laughter, peal on peal,
Rings over the river and over the shore,
  And from the island the echoes roll.
    We hear the mysterious voice again.
“We have won! we have won!
Will you race once more?”

The water drips in golden rain
  From the blade of the resting oar,
Again we take, our place, and again
  That clear voice wakes the shore:
  “Go!” And we bend to our oars once more,
And banks fly past, till the gleaming meadows
Give place to the woods and their gloomy shadows.

Our skiff is steered by skilful hands,
  Its rowers’ arms are strong,
But muscles are not iron bands
  To bear such conflict long.
And hearts beat hard, and breath comes fast,
  And cheeks too hotly burn,
Before the welcome goal is passed—
  The rest two lengths astern.

The evening air is growing chill,
    The moon is sinking low:
  The race is ours—across the wave
  We call, but nothing answers save
    The winds that gently blow,
“Come race again.” But all in vain—
The silvery voice is still.